"Two years (the longest of my life were they!)
Emptied their sands at last, and then I wrote
A letter to him, to the Barings' care,
Containing one word only; this: 'Unchanged.'
In the same old familiar room we met:
Eager I gave my hand; but he drew back,
Folded his arms, and said, with half a smile:
''Tis not for me; still am I under ban!'
'I'm glad of that!' cried I; ''twill help to show
How slight, to love like mine, impediments
Injustice can pile up!'
"He took my hand,
And, for the first time, we exchanged a kiss.
Then we sat down and freely talked. Said he:
'Baffled in all my efforts to procure
Reversal of my sentence, I resolved
To terminate one misery at least:
Yearly the court compelled me, through my bondsmen,
To render an account of all my income,
Of which the larger portion must be paid
For the support of my betrayer, and
The child, called, by a legal fiction, mine.
To this annoyance of an annual dealing
With her attorney, I would put an end;
And so I compromised by giving up
Two thirds of all my property at once.
This leaves me free from all entanglement
With her or hers,—though with diminished means.
"'And now, since still you venture to confide
Wholly in me, my Mary Merivale,—
And since you would intrust your happiness
To one who can but give you love for love,—
To make our income certain, 'tis my plan
Straightway my little remnant to convert
Into a joint annuity, to last
During our natural lives: this will secure
A fair, though not munificent support.
And since for me you put the gay world by,
And since for you I make no sacrifice,
Now shape our way of life as you may choose.'
"This I disclaimed; but we at last arranged
That on the morrow, in the presence of
My poor friend Lucy, and my sister Julia,
We two should take each other by the hand
As emblem of a pledge including all
Of sacred and inviolable, all
Of holy and sincere, that man and woman,
Uniting for connubial purposes,
And with no purpose foreign to right love,
Can, with responsible intelligence,
Give to each other in the face of God,
And before human witnesses.
"And so
The simple rite—if such it could be called—
Took place. A formal kiss was interchanged,
And then we all knelt down, and Percival
Met our hearts' need with such a simple prayer
As by its quickening and inspiring faith
Made us forget it was another's voice,
Not our own hearts, that spoke. My sister Julia
Wept, not for me, but for herself, poor child!
The chill, the gloom of an unhappy future
Crept on her lot already, like a mist
Foreshadowing the storm; she saw, not distant,
All the despair of a regretful marriage
Menacing her and driving forth her children.
It did not long delay. Her spendthrift lord,
After a squander of his own estate,
And after swindling my confiding father
Of a large sum, deserted wife and children,
To play the chevalier of industry
At Baden, or at Homburg, and put on
More of the aspect of the beast each day.
Three children have his blood to strive against.
Poor Julia! What she has to live on now
Was given by Linda's father. We found means,
Also, to set up our poor sewing-girl,
My old companion, Lucy, in a trade
In which she thrives,—she and a worthy husband.
"What said my parents? Well, I wrote them soon,
Relating all the facts without reserve,
And asking, 'Would it be agreeable to them
To have a visit from us?' They replied,
'It will not be agreeable, for our house
Is one of good repute.'—Not three years after,
A joint appeal came to us for their aid
To the amount of seven hundred pounds.
We sent the money, and it helped to smooth
Their latter days; perhaps to mitigate
The anger they had felt; and yet not they:
Of the ungenerous words addressed to us
My father never knew.
"We met my sisters,
Through Julia's urging, I believe, and proudly
I let them see what sort of man I'd chosen.
We travelled for a time in England; then,
In travel and in study, spent three years
Upon the Continent; and sailed at last
For the great land to which my thoughts had turned
So often—for America. Arriving
Here in New York, we took this little house,
Scene of so many joys and one great woe;
And yet a woe so full of heavenly life
We should not call it by a mournful name.
"At length our Linda came to make all bright;
And I can say, should the great summoner
Call me this day to leave you, liberal Heaven
More than my share of mortal bliss already
Would have bestowed. Yes, little Linda came!
To spoil us for all happiness but that
In which she too could share—the dear beguiler!
And with the sceptre of her love she ruled us,
And with a happy spirit's charm she charmed us,
Artfully conquering by shunning conquest,
And by obeying making us obey.
And so, one day, one happy day in June,
We all sat down together, and her mother
Told her the story which here terminates."